


Looking for Some Hot Stuff

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9345362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: For the VMHQ 1k word fic challenge. Veronica has to fake-date Dick Casablancas for a case. Once she meets his housemate, she's less torn up about it.





	

Veronica rings the doorbell, adjusts the neckline of her red silk halter dress, and wishes she was anywhere else on the planet, on a date with anyone OTHER than Dick Casablancas.

She checks her watch, rings again—she’s late, but only ten minutes, the cheating husband she was tailing tried for ROMANCE—and abruptly the door swings open. If it weren’t for the raucous bro-party sounds emitting from the yard, she’d be sure she’s got the wrong mansion; the foyer’s full of some brown-eyed, hard-bodied charisma bomb, with the kind of sarcastic eyebrow game that makes Veronica melt.

“You’re not my client,” she says, and the eyebrows go into overdrive, a lurking smirk making itself known.

Dreamboat scratches the GO NAVY! logo on his chest, and adopts a pose of almost-impossible negligence, lounging against the doorframe. “Now, let’s not be hasty. There are MANY services I’m in need of, today, and I’m not one to quibble about rates.”

Veronica scowls, points at herself. “Private investigator,” she says, enunciating clearly, because if he’s Dick’s friend, looks are likely his only asset. “Hired to pose as his date, figure out who stole his Lamborghini.” She points at him, resisting the urge to touch a muscle, determine if there’s any give. “Large obstacle to performing said task, before the clock strikes ‘past my bedtime’.”

“My apologies.” He gestures grandly for her to enter, pivots on bare feet to lead her down the hall. She follows, eyeing the worn rear pockets of his jeans—seriously, she could bounce a quarter off any PART of this guy—and tries not to gouge the hardwoods with her heels. “I just got back from ten months at sea. And this wouldn’t be the first welcome-home strip-o-gram Dick’s thoughtfully provided.”

“Yeah, that matches my impression of Casablancas.” She trails him through a lavish, cavernous living room, towards patio-access French doors. “A gentleman and a giver. Nice to see I haven’t lost my touch.”

He laughs—a sexy laugh, knowing and sardonic—and says, “They’re out doing flaming Dr. Peppers by the bar. I’d stand at least ten feet back; and show no fear, or you’ll end up in the pool.”

“You’re not celebrating?” she asks, as Sailor Steve settles onto the couch, picks up a copy of ‘Guns, Germs and Steel’. His eyebrows slant down at the outer edges in sympathy.

“I’m enjoying an other-side-of-the-planet case of jet lag, and I really don’t drink,” he says. “But if things get too…festive out there, whistle. I’ve got a medal of honor and a decent right hook, and I’m happy to ride to the rescue.”

“My policy is, tase first and ask questions later,” she says, with a smile. “But thanks for the offer, Captain America. You’re a credit to the uniform.”

Veronica saunters out, positive he’s studying her ass as carefully as she studied his, and emerges into overgrown frat-party mayhem. Thirty of Casablancas’ nearest and dearest are clustered by the cabana, chugging drinks dropped in other drinks and displaying fondness for swimwear. She’s glad she didn’t get the memo--with this kind of crowd, she prefers to overdress.

“Ronniekins!” Dick yells, making her wince, and bounds over like an enthusiastic Labrador to drape his arm around her. “Guys, this is my special new lady friend, who I met in a Maserati showroom. She totally loves to drive race cars!”

V resists the urge to roll her eyes at Dick’s fifth-grade-book-report recitation of her cover story. Plasters on a megawatt smile. “My dad wanted a son. We rebuilt engines together on weekends, bonding.”

“You should start a garage,” some louche, beige douchebag offers, lounging back and lighting a purple bong. “Hire eleven other girl mechanics, market your business with a calendar.”

“Shut it, Friedrich,” says a shorter, more earnest model—God they’re ALL pale and fair in this crowd, it’s like an Abercrombie ad. He offers his hand. “I’m Luke, nice to meet you. Did you BUY the Maserati? Because I’m thinking about one, myself.”

She shakes her head, faux-regretful. “I’m partial to Lamborghinis…Dick let me test-drive his. But when he invited me to the party tonight, poor baby said it was STOLEN?”

“Yeah that was a TOTAL drag.” An overly-slender brunette in hot pink drapes herself over Luke-nice-to-meet-you, staking her claim. “Dick valet-parked it at this club where we like to hang; and when he turned in the ticket, the keys were gone. They investigated, you know, and fired the attendant. But the car’s probably over the border, in some drug dealer’s garage.”

The guy with the bong smirks, enjoying a private joke, and Veronica thinks, BINGO. She surreptitiously squeezes her handbag, making her phone chirp. “Oh my gosh, it’s my…pit crew calling! Super important emergency! Gotta run!”

She waves over her shoulder as she heads for the house, typing Mac furiously with both thumbs. GUY NAMED FRIEDRICH, LIKES HIS DRUGS. I’D BET MONEY HE’S OUR THIEF. PULL HIS ADDRESS? WE CAN EXPLORE WHILE HE PARTIES.

Swinging the door open, she collides with a large, warm object, and no those muscles do NOT give an inch. Sailor Steve smiles down at her with hot brown eyes that seem to see secrets and says, “Even Dick doesn’t usually repel women THAT fast.”

“I solved the case.” She rests a palm flat between GO and NAVY, favoring him with a crooked smile that makes his heart beat faster. “No need to linger.”

“What if I hired you to answer another burning question?” He plants a hand on the door frame above her, like he could lean all night. “The mystery of a name and number I don’t know. I could promise no flaming Dr. Peppers, on any dates resulting from MY case.”

“My card.” She digs through her purse and extends it between two fingers, her eyes locked with his. “From whom should the receptionist expect a call?”

“Logan Echolls.” He leans closer, breath warm on her ear. “I’ll touch base bright and early. Because I REALLY need your help.”

 


End file.
